


Of Secrets and Tea

by KneelB4mEyouMewlingQUIM



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Assistant, Dark Sherlock, Deductions, F/M, Kidnapping, Older Man/Younger Woman, PA, Psychological Trauma, Relationship(s), Slow Build, Tea, Torture, Violence, but not for a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KneelB4mEyouMewlingQUIM/pseuds/KneelB4mEyouMewlingQUIM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>****RE-WRITTEN***</p><p>If you are enticed by stories of heroics and easily overcome conflict, you would be better off reading some other book. In this tale, not only is there no happy beginning, but there are few happy things that happen in the middle and quite probably even less towards the end.This is because not very many happy things happened in to life of Ms.Clea Hardell. It's not too late to go and read a short romance with happy endings. However, if you fear not, shall we take a look?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following story is one of pure fiction. Any situations, persons or events relatable to real life is coincidental (unless otherwise stated) and is not meant to inflict offense. No profit is being made from this and all rights and ownership goes to the BBC. In this story, there will be mention of harm, violence, torture, rape, and inappropriate usage and dosage of prescription drugs. If you are still reading, enjoy "Of Secrets and Tea".

_Prologue_

 

The metal door of the blank interrogation room slammed shut. A man sat at the equally metallic table, his brown eyes twitched at the sound. He had been in this situation so many times before, only during said times he sat at the other side of the table.

Longingly, he stared at that other side, wishing it was him placing his coffee on the table. Him scraping the cold chair across the floor to sit down. His slapping a file down on the cold surface. But alas, it was not him.

The man thought about why he was there. He relived every time he could have called the operation off; taken her out of there and to safety. He was not a terribly introspective man, he did and acted, more than thought; yet now, in that cold interrogation room, he sat quietly, eyes glazed over, waiting for the suited man across from him with the authority and the badge, to speak. To say the words the silver haired man refused to hear.

"Is this her?" the nondescript man laid a large photo of a young woman in front of the disbelieving other. It caught his eye, but he quickly looked away. He wouldn't look at her face: all ability and will. The man only nodded to the other in response, a slow slash tearing through his chest.

"So, DI Lestrad, tell me about the late Agent Clea Hardell."


	2. Intro

_Intro_

Clea Hardell was an enticingly silent character in the world. She had been raised, drinking tea and keeping secrets; schooled to know teas and how to discover secrets; paid to make tea and become a secret. Was there anything acutely interesting about her? One might which they would receive a pause, an open mouth with invisible words balancing on their tongues, then an other pause. Yes, she was indeed an interest to many a mind, but in countable ways; she was often a passing fancy to said minds.

She sat,too complex to challenge, too unearthly to lock away. A mystery, some would call her. Some may have gone so far as to compare her to the smoke issued from a sunken candle. Nearly evanescent.

If someone saw her as a cold, statuesque figurine, they would be wrong. She lacked, not passion -but enablement of conviction. While the young lady was not deterred to enable a debate or state her opinion or correct an assumption where need be, she did so quietly.

Few realize this. Only select individuals could tell when she spoke truth, in ways of sarcasm or unneeded mumbles. And was she afraid to "show off"? No. She knew the time and place for it, however, so she saved it for those who may appreciate or comprehend it. But we are getting ahead of ourselves now.

Why was she so different? Why did she trod on the hot coals of the government?

It was because she, unlike many, did not strain on the big picture, rather splitting it apart, studying each fragment, then piecing it back together. Some called it deduction, some called it magic, few called it common sense and more called it crazy; but that was not all. Oh no.

It was because she had nothing to lose.


	3. What is Wrong with Mr. Holmes?

Amidst the gasoline fueled vehicles, the elevated voices of passersby and the ringing of bicycle bells, there was a sound. It was the sound of a small clock. Indeed, within the walls of a nondescript building, there was a small clock, ticking away. A watch to be exact. Through the entrance, down corridors and and into doorways, there sat a bench. On said bench, there sat a young woman, and in that woman's hands, lay the culprit.

_Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick —click._

A proudly gleaming pocket-watch of silver sat in Ms. Clea Hardell's hand.

As she was seated, waiting for the thick door to her right to swing open, she studied the slender hand of the seconds as it ticked to a full circle. Each turn of those arms were so very much the same, yet was they symbolized and represented was so terribly ever- ticking seemed to echo and reverberate from the corridors. So much so, that it seemed that Big Ben was in her hands, opposed to a palm-sized pocket watch.

As with only the fewest of things, time was a strange thing to Ms. Clea Hardell. T'was the stuff of importance and illusion, and yet she chose to not dwell on its significance as it could easily consume her life and thoughts.

Time was a quiet thing, bit it constantly evolved into the uproar that the future holds. It could be described as being as tangible as pickin up a tea cup, or that it could not be grasped at all. It taught, aged and lacked any morals. Time was not linear as so many thought; it just was. But it was the most constant thing in Clea's life, the one thing she knew would be there when she awoke. Her small, fragile fingers clenched the case of the time keeper to a close, ceasing the unending ticking of seconds.

Clea took a moment or two to dwell on why she was where she currently sat; the office of a Mr. M. Holmes. Perhaps it was in her innermost nature to seek out precarious positions such as this one, perhaps it served as a sign that her younger years of childhood never truly left her without being tainted with its past happenings. Had the recklessness she felt become so engrained inside her that the very feeling coursed through her veins? She did not know. However much her childhood effected her, it did not matter, as the consequences remained the same. Poisonous manipulation and solitude. The first had been inflicted upon her and so therefore, she was well practiced in the art of said distortion, the second was what had been her answer to the tangled truth of the former. In both instances, Clea had learned to either accept or relish in them, and, thankfully, both were well thought of in her current line of work. Which subsequently brought her thoughts back to her present at that time.

Upon opening her watch once more, Clea found the little arms telling her that thirteen seconds remained in the duration of her wait. Clea Hardell knew that if her possible future director was to be entitled to employ her service, the regal door to her immediate left would open in thirteen seconds; no more and certainly no less. Furthermore, if the door was in fact opened accordingly, then the position would most certainly prove to be an adequately satisfying one. You see, dear reader, a well practiced employer would be on time, however, a respectable employer was punctual and took pride in it. By what Clea had gathered from her brief background check on Mr. Holmes, he was, respectively, the latter.

Her thumb gently caressed the pocket-watch's surface, much like a mother would her new born's cheek; though instead of relishing in the blush on an infant's cheeks, Clea Hardell luxuriated in the sheen that shimmered along the bright silver. _I hope I have done you proud Pa_...Gingerly placing the time-keeper in her pastel blue, pin-striped waistcoat, the young woman allowed the remaining seconds to pass quietly. Then, just as she was lulled into a calmed state, there was a sound that greeted Clea's awaiting ears, other than her own heart precise click of gears in the door's handle coincided seamlessly with her soundless count to zero.

For a moment, Clea's view was blocked by the imposing, wooden door, halting her from seeing the opener. After a short moment, a woman turned to face the sitting girl of only twenty-one. Clea raised her head high with prepared eyes, opposed to studying the woman through her long eyelashes. She also sat a bit straighter - not that she could sit additionally straighter as she was already accustomed to ramrod straight posture.

"Ms. Hardell? We're ready for you."

The assistant spoke smoothly, but with an underlying monotone of boredom. _She has most likely been in this position for the better part of her life. A man in Mr. Holmes' position would not take to switching close employees every other year. Personal Assistant? Name-brand clothes in black, manicured nails, suitable amount of cosmetics, tired eyes, slightly flatter right thumb from constantly using her phone. That phone does not part from her hands; she clutches it as though it were her life line, most probably composed of secrets and tea times. Personal Assistant._

Clea looked up to the woman's brown eyes with a small but pleased grin. "Thank you."

Picking up her black brief case, Clea strode through the door frame; the sound of her small heels establishing her otherwise silent entrance. As she first walked into the office, Clea did the one thing she always did- survey her surroundings. Book cases lined the walls; an empty hearth sat to the right accompanied by the presence of two cushioned chairs; a large window resided near the back of the office to the left of an equally large desk. As a whole, the entire office was well maintained. That being said, the most prominent element in the room was the complete lack of untidiness, and the booming presence aristocratic intelligence, which was proudly displayed in every inch of space.

_Possible Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?No, not OCD; OCPD- Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. This man was obsessed with power, and he made sure everyone in the room knew he held the cards._

Behind the rather large oak desk, sat a man who's attention was otherwise occupied outside of the impressively sized window.

 _His black locks looked to have been subject to his fingers running through them in attempt to tame the curls; his blazer was well made, but looked to have been thrown on his floor after a hard day's work, instead of hung in a closet. He also did not seem terribly at ease in his tie, and his purple button up was far too tight to be considered appropriate._ He was an ill attempt of an imposter, and to say that Clea did her best not to laugh would be an understatement.

As she took a seat in the chair opposite him, Clea stared at the man before her. She sat waiting to be acknowledged, which he did, without so much a a flicker of an eye."Good afternoon, Ms. Hardell."

Not seeing any true reason to reply, Clea chose to remain silent. Clea knew her manners and saw no fault in not responding when she was not technically spoken to, after all, it was the window he was speaking to.The man that truly owned the office she sat in, prided himself on manners and chivalry; that much was painfully obvious. To her silence, the man looked up at last.

_Calculating, clear eyes, and a good mind. He most likely lives in a London flat as he does not fit in with this decor around, though he has an appreciation of it, so probably a relative of Mr. Holmes. The balance of probability says brother; however, when neck deep in politics, wouldn't the more distant acquaintance be more appropriate? So...sibling rivalry? Younger brother picking if the elder? Most probable._

Deciding to break the facade that was so clearly being orchestrated around her, Clea spoke in her direct, soft voice with a simple question.

"Where is Mr. M. Holmes?" She asked, little emotion in her eyes though she spoke softly. This got his attention, however he was not proving to be the best actor as he allowed curiosity slip through his trick," I'm afraid I don't follow." The man spoke with a creased brow.

"Where is Mr. M. Holmes, since you are more than clearly not he? Moreover, I would like to know to whom I am speaking."She paused, "You are his brother, are you not?"

As the words fell from her mouth, the man's face remained blank for a moment or two, then it broke into a curious smirk that spoke for him. "Well done."He stood and walked to Clea, smirk still in place, but hand outstretched, "Sherlock Holmes."

Clea took it firmly, giving him a small triumphant grin. Another door opened to reveal an other man, more suited to the high-ranking position. "Off you go little brother, you're not needed anymore." The voice that came from this man was not as dark as his brother's, but just as rich and effortless, perhaps with a surpassing class of tone. She quickly took in his immaculate three piece suit and startling, direct eyes.

Yes, definitely higher in the aristocracy we pretend not to have. The younger Holmes still hadn't taken his sea glass eyes off Clea; confusion and admiration shone behind his irises. Minds of thorough intellect were extraordinarily limited in numbers, and the young man before her clearly had a fascination for them as they had the rare ability to match his intelligence.

With his hands settled in his pockets, he continued to analyze her. What he received was rather disappointing boring, as he got only exterior nothings; silver pocket watch (sentimental?ornamental?); _short chestnut hair; soft, classical features that point to direct Aryan relations, but no trace of German is in her speech, but too young to weed the thick accent out. Good taste, and separates home from work. Non-smoker, early twenties_. But still, there was nothing that alluded to the nature and inner workings of the girl before him.

Clea patiently waited as he ended his deduction, and she sighed knowingly inside when he came up with nothing. In truth, not even she could solve herself, she was just a puzzle that sat jumbled up; all details but no outcome.

"Brother mine, would you please remove yourself from my office." It was presented as anything but a question, and finally, the younger moved. Definitely sibling rivalry. The newly produced man-who Clea assumed to be Mycroft Holmes- watched with calculating eyes as the door clicked shut behind his younger kin, leaving him, his P.A-who had remained on her phone for the duration of the interview- and Clea Hardell.

"Well played, my dear. Now, you are Ms. Clea Hardell?"He stated, more than asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"I am Mycroft Holmes. Now it says here," He flipped through what Clea knew to be her file. "That you last served at Buckingham Palace. Is this true?"

She didn't answer. It was a remarkably silly question, after all, Clea knew he had been and always will be informed of everything. It was in the nature of his soul to play the strings to make his puppets dance; it seemed, however, he enjoyed allowing them to think they had control. Mr. Holmes' brows scrunched together and he contemplated his current strategy to converse with the young woman before him, that did not seem to be working in his favour.

"Why did you decide to seek employment here? No position was made known, yet you sent in your file to be reviewed."

Nothing.

"Are you able to keep your mouth shut, should you obtain this position, Ms. Hardell?"He pressed.

Silence.

Mycroft huffed a sigh of tired disappointment and made his way to the door.

"Ms. Hardell, you do need to answer sooner or later. However I am a very busy man, as such, seeing as you refuse to speak-

"Oh, I can speak, Mr. Holmes." Clea stated, turning her head to him, speaking with little emotion and a straight face. "I know that your younger brother used to tease you, that you worry over him more than you care to share, that you have OCPD and that you are the man whose secrets I have been keeping and dealing with since I have been a one of Her Majesty's agents. I did previously serve at Buckingham Palace, I am here seeking a different position because that is what people do- their tastes change, and yes, as you have learned, I can remain silent. You see, I simply do not answer silly questions that you already know the answers to, Mr. Holmes. I believe you will find that I often do not answer questions at all."

Silence passed over the office, much like a shroud. The grip Mycroft had developed on the door knob went lax, and he did something that was, in itself, an enigma. Mycroft Holmes smiled.


	4. Chapter 2

 

While on the way out of the building, Mycroft's personal assistant, Anthea she had said, explained what Clea would have resting on her shoulders in her new position. Anthea explained how Mycroft Holmes was a remarkably busy man, and that Clea would be in charge of preparing his morning, evening and anything in between- including any unwanted "situations". Anthea had paused at this, looking up from her texting to ensure that the young agent understood. Furthermore, she had annotated how Mycroft Holmes was most vulnerable when at home, and how, as such, her watch must never go down.

"As much as I am his personal assistant, you will be his guard dog. Is that understood?"

With her eyes drawn to her phone, Anthea somehow managed to navigate the two through the quiet halls and out to the exit. A sleek black car sat waiting for them, publled up to the curb.

"Yes, I fully understand."

"You're sure?" Anthea continued to speak to her screen.

"Yes, ma'am." Clea stated, then added, " I have taken three bullets for the Queen during my time at Buckingham Palace; I believe I am prepared to take a couple more for Mr. Holmes." The young, pale woman resolved. Thus far, Mr. Holmes had proven to be precisely what she had thought him to be, if that course of reveal was to carry on, then she was ready for a bullet. 'Heart of the English nation', he had called Buckingham Palace, but he was the one with the true pulse of the nation, that was something she knew for certain.

Anthea did not respond; that was when Clea learned to stick to what she was asked, as she would not readily receive an answer. The two slid into the leather seats and the automobile took off without command.

"Where are we heading to, miss Anthea?"

"I'm to take you to your home. I trust you have your belongings packed?"Eyes still glued to the screen in front of her.

"Yes."

"Good."

That was all the conversation held for the remaining time of their trip. The rest was silence as Clea Hardell contemplated her near future in Mr. Holmes' service. She had been through employment of the outer workings of the British government, so, at this point, she had deemed it time to be in close quarters with the master pulling the strings.

 One month later.

 

Clea lay, as she had, for the past month, in her bed and in the dark. It was always dark when Clea awoke. If she were to look outside of her window, she would be able to see the start of a blue hue colouring the skies; scattered bird calls sounded in the dark, the faint roar of an engine in the distance.

In the past, Clea had experienced far worse conditions to wake up to. For example; when there was a code R.E.D. breach in Buckingham Palace; those were rather brutal, even to the toughest of soldiers. 32 hour shifts, sometimes more depending on the severity of the breach- also whether it was a hacking, a fault in security or a physical attack.

The room with which Mr. Holmes supplied Clea with, was nothing terribly special, though was just as aristocratic as the rest of the household and a few sights better than what she was used to. However, the room did include a concealed door in one of the wooden panels along the walls which led to numerous rooms in the house. The passageways in said panel were led-lined and sound-proofed. When Clea had first arrived, upon assessing her new home, one thing that she had been pleasantly surprised with, was that Mycroft Holmes was undoubtedly prepared for just about anything.

 

Her fox-sharp eyes snapped open at 3:59, but then glazed over and relaxed once more. With hazy eyes, Clea stalked to her small, connected washroom. She flicked on the switch, white light stung her eyes as it did each morning. Once she recovered from momentary blindness, she looked in the mirror to size herself up. The first thing she noticed was the mop that seemed to have placed itself on her head, as her short, dark hair was matted and stuck up in places it oughtn't. _Have I found a new passion for breakdancing in my time of slumber...or do I wish to resemble a turnip?_ she pondered. Her big, grey eyes were half closed and there was a distinct shape on her cheek, where she had rested her head, in a vibrant shade of pink.

 

She was a sight to behold in the wee hours of the morning, as it juxtaposed her usual self. In fact, on the seventeenth night she had spent in her new home, when sleep seemed to have evaded her, it resulted in her _padding into the kitchen at 2:15 am. While Clea nearly prided herself on her awareness, it seemed that since working for Mycroft Holmes, she had let her guard down slightly. In her sleeplessness, the shadowed and ever-watching form of Mr. Holmes as he rested against the a counter, cup of tea in hand, had escaped her._

 _"Does sleep escape you too?"_ _He had inquired with a softness that was resoundingly unusual._

_Clea had spun on her heel, almost throwing the cup she had retrieved from the top cupboard at his head. Once she saw him, and registered who he was, her defensive stance lessened and she became well aware that she was in her robe - a short one at that-and in front of her boss, too._

_"Hello, Sir," An unfortunate blush had stained her not-so-awake cheeks, and she coughed awkwardly," Yes sir, I cannot find myself able to sleep..."Her voice trailed off, rendering them silent. In truth she had indeed fallen asleep, only to relive a particularly gruesome torture she had to watch...one which one would not readily forget._

_She fidgeted with her sleeves and then told Mr. Holmes that she had wished to find something to remedy her predicament, to which he had responded,"There is some peppermint tea in the cupboard. Help yourself."_

_She had made her tea and bid Mr. Holmes a quiet good night. He hadn't said anything in return, only continued to sip his tea. It wasn't until Clea was three steps out of the kitchen that he replied with a whisper, "Goodnight, Clea..."_

_Little did she know that after he said good night, a small grin stretched across his lips. He had seen the messy haired, burry eyed, delirious girl she became when she thought there was no one to see, and to say that it was endearingly amusing to him was an understatement. But that was a secret Mr. Holmes had chosen to keep to himself._

* * *

 

Clea splashed icy water onto her warm cheeks, the contrast awakening her senses, and looked in to mirror once more. The same classical face she saw everyday stared back at her. She disliked it. Many people would not take her seriously because she didn't have darker, tougher skin and harder muscles nor a terrifying stance. In their places, she had cream and peach skin, leaner, lither muscles and a confident and commanding stance.

_Time to wake up 007; the British Government won't survive on a cup of tea and the body in the freezer won't disappear on its own._

Indeed, there was a corpse in the freezer, down in the cellar. An unfortunately persistent paparazzi had managed to find Mycroft Holmes' house, and, being the brother of the now famous Sherlock Holmes, he was a target for questioning. How the reporter had discovered Mycroft's name or address escaped both Clea and he, and so he needed to be dealt with. Now, Clea did not kill him, not at all; she had merely invited him in (for questioning, but of course, he was not aware that he would be interrogated) when he collapsed on the rug. Clea had called in a few favours and gotten his blood checked along with a tissue sample. But it seemed that he had died naturally. He had had a particularly agitating way of speaking- as though no matter how much he moved his mouth to form consonants and obtain proper diction, only slurred mumbles came out.

Padding out of the tiled room, Clea ambled to her dark wood dresser. She slipped from her loose, black night shirt, and plucked an equally black sports bra from her top cupboard and grey sweatpants from the lowest. She tugged both on and hoped to have the sturdy balance which was expected of her as a field agent, but sadly she tripped over her pant leg and fell face first onto her bed.

Once she recovered from her mishap, her muscles stretched and bones popped as she unfurled her stiff limbs in a stretch. She slipped into her runners, and quickly placed her earpiece in, and "earwig" they called it. Knowing the security team would be able to hear her if she so much as whispered, Clea spoke commandingly and loudly.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

To which she received a groggy "Hello to you too." from a voice she new belonged to Gregory Wills. He was her favourite;Agent Wills- to her, he was like the guardian angle she never had. Not last week, there was a shot fired through the kitchen window- it had missed Clea's Frontal Lobe by centimeters, because Wills had 'chosen' that time to make Clea's earpiece to shriek with static 'accidentally', causing her to duck in pain.

She liked him. Quite a lot. He was a bolder of a man who could have either been a boxer, a bouncer or Santa. And he was the only one path ever looked into- never did a background check. Clea notified Wills that she would be going out as per usual. He secured any path to Mr. Holmes, down- as she would not leave the house without his safety in check.

 

Clea fled the manor with the silence of a breath and took to the large gardens, feet pounding on the trail. The chilled English air of the morning stung her strong lungs, and tried to freeze her muscles, but try as it might, the cold did nothing; not when Clea was in bliss. The garden was her most favoured place to be in all of Mr. Holmes' manor, more specifically her favoured place to rest her mind. Each morning, she would savour the sheer silence that engulfed the dawn, after all, she had never had the privilege of the quiet contentment she now felt. There were few things Clea held dear, one was time-the trickster that danced to a ticking beat. The next was a new day- the sign that she had cheated the customary early death of an agent once more. Like time, mornings were precious.

After twenty-five laps, Clea let her pursuing run slow to a light jog. She made her way to the more edible section of the garden, rather than strolling along the tiled path through the Rhododendrons and Azaleas. Once she reached said section, her eyes fell upon the familiar sight of a medium sized stainless steel bowl. It sat just beside a batch of Romaine lettuce, just as it did every morning. Clea tipped her head to Mr. Holmes' window thoughtfully and she grasped her bowl. She thought on what to give him for his morning meal, and resolved that he would endure a fruit salad and fresh pressed juice of cucumber, ginger, grapefruit, apple, beets and kale. Sir was regularly hinting that he was on a diet, and if that was the case, then Clea would show him what health meant. Clea filled her hands with raspberries and her eye twitched when her skin caught on a thorn. She added strawberries to her mix, along with generous handfuls of red currents. Then, she ventured to the Russet apple tree, not far away, and plucked two of its fruit.

With her bowl full and beads of sweat running down her skin, Clea strolled into the kitchen's glass double doors. She placed the fruit into the cool fridge with a covering of plastic-wrap over the bowl's , with the same amount of quiet amd grace she had exited with, Clea went to the stairs and up to her room.

As she stood under its gentle spray, the soothing warmth of the shower tickled her skin as it's water ran to the tiles, washing away any residual grime that tarnished her. Sadly, that peace only lasted a few moments as even Clea's longest showers were finished before seven minutes. Flicking the nozzle to OFF, Clea slipped from the shower and was dried and dressed in record time.

She stood adjusting her grey, full length, circle skirt in front of her mirror, her stockings wrapped her slender legs in a sheer-black embrace and she tucked her long sleeved blouse in for the twelfth time. Clea bent over to readjust her gun strapped to her right thigh as the holster's material was pinching was the ideal picture of what was expected of her- professional and one final look at herself, Clea went to unarm the paths to which led to her employer.

"Good morning, Clea."

Mr. Holmes' gentle and expectant voice cooed from behind her, as it did each day. She turned from her chopping board to greet him, the man Clea now guarded with every second of her life was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. Without fail, Mr. Holmes was dressed to flawless perfection. As per usual, he dawned an impeccable three-piece suit, however, that day's suit was one he had not worn before. The colour of choice was a navy blue pinstripe blazer, waist cost and trousers, along with a crisp white button down, and a scarlet tie with a gold pin. Much like Clea was in the morning, Mr. Holmes was a sight to be held. Every inch of him practically screamed "I own you.", but that day-that Thursday- Mr. Holmes seemed off. His cooling demeanor remained in place, or course, but it was his stance that gave him away. His deportment told her that a crisis had arisen at his workplace- a look grew on his calm face that spoke volumes, saying that he wanted to explain to Clea what was going on, and if that were the case then the occurrence must be highly critical- then there was the particularly dapper suit he was clad in; he wanted to intimidate today, mark his territory and soundlessly tell all that he was dangerous. He was also meeting with the new Danish ambassador to the United Kingdom- a lovely man with a wife and five children.

"Good morning, Sir. Your breakfast is nearly done."She told him with her usual stoney face, but offered a small grin.

"Good."

With that, his pride and regal demeanor swept from the room with him. As she turned back to the food on the counter, sigh escaped Clea's pink lips. Though she was not technically supposed to be, she grew worried for her employer. He was such a powerful and power-driven man that sometimes Clea felt that his acceptance of potential danger was, in itself, a danger to him. Of course he would never admit those facts, but every so often, Clea saw it in him, and, like him, she would never let in that she was concerned.

* * *

 

"You realize that by depriving me of tea, I could have you killed?"

Oh yes, as much of a man he was, Mr. Holmes also had a rather childish side. That day was the day in which Clea cut out Sir's morning Earl Grey tea. Though she did it for his own good; the fluid did nothing to help his digestion of the light meal she served him that morning. The heaviness of the milk and the earl grey tea would confuse his system while he consumed the fruits. Which is why she had offered him a herbal tea in its stead, but that leads us back to the problem at hand. Clea had said nothing.

"I could take your life apart, bit by pathetic bit, then leave you while you wail for help."

"Yes sir, but you won't. "

"And why wouldn't I?" He asked in his sweetly murderous tone.

"Because you need me, sir." She responded in her gentle, monotonous voice.

"I have your superior's superior on speed dial, I could call him right now." He purposefully punctuated the last two words with venom.

"But sir, you are my superior's superior. Unless you are going to call yourself, I'm afraid I don't see how that could work?"

"You realize that you could be replaced? That wouldn't bode terribly well for you, would it, my dear?"

"No, sir. It would not. Shall I go pack my belongings, sir?"She asked in jest, but did not let on through her face as it remained calm and questioning. Her question caught Mr. Holmes off guard. He shut his mouth and looked at her.The majority of the individuals he dealt with would have been shaking where they stood, like the pathetic goldfish they were. But not her. She challenged him- something even his own brother dared not do without ammunition- and she was not afraid to do so. It was much like when he had confronted her about the fact that all of his suits no long fit him as they hung loose on his body; it was due to the complete change she had inflicted upon his eating habits. At the time, Mr. Holmes had expected an immediate apology and a suggestion that she go and purchase him new clothes, all said with a tremor in her voice. However, what he got what this:

_After he had asked-albeit rather eerily calm- for her to go and purchase him suitable clothes, she had looked him up and down in a analytical way and said plainly,"Is there anything else you require while I'm out sir?"_

_"No." He had sneered, agitated. Clea nodded and was just about to leave, when she turned and asked for her wages._

_"Why do you require your wages at this time? You are paid at the end of the month."_

_"I am to buy you new suits, sir. Each of your suits are at least £700, so I see fit to have my wages of this month to cover the extra cost."_

_"No, take this. I rarely use it so there should be at least £4000 on it." He handed her a credit card, which she took._

_"But sir, it is my doing that has led you to need new clothing, so therefore I ought to pay for it out of my own pocket, oughtn't I?"_

_He was about to argue back, when he saw the mirth floating in her grey eyes, something he had not seen in a long time. He had decided to play along._

_"How much do I owe you?" He asked._

_"£2530, sir."_

_"I shall add £2600 to your card."_

_"But sir, that is too much."_

_"Think of the extra as an advancement of your next paycheck."_

_"I cannot sir."_

_"Then I shall add £2500."He had huffed._

_"Thank you, sir."_

_She had left without another word. However, known to both of them, she had kept his card, and used it. And she had collected her wages at the end of the month. When she had returned that evening, she brought five complete, three piece suits with her, as well as any more casual wears he may have required. Each of which she had washed, pressed and hung in his closet by that night_.

No, he would not replace her. No one else could be a constant know-it-all minx and still receive a "Good morning" from him. They both knew this, one of them simply hated to admit it.

"That will be all, thank you, Clea."

A hint of a smile tugged at Clea's lips, "Yessir."

Once Clea was back in the kitchen, she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for the day. Hands on waist, she cast her re-opened gaze around the kitchen space, until her eyes landed on her own meal; she had nearly forgotten it. The fruit stared up at her. A rich raspberry was millimeters away from Clea's mouth when she heard the faint click of the door closing quietly; it was never slammed. Another sound of her sigh echoed through the empty house as she begrudgingly finished her meal.

_Time to get rid of that body in the freezer..._


End file.
